


Combust

by thrxnduils



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Desire, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Protectiveness, Roughness, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrxnduils/pseuds/thrxnduils
Summary: The Hound stood weak in the face of two kinds of fire.The roaring flames that had burned his face.And the red-headed Lady of Winterfell.His little bird.Sansa Stark.(Rated M and possibly will change to 'Explicit' for coming chapters, based on SanSan. Starts at 8x04's reunion between The Hound & Sansa, following the Battle of Winterfell.)





	1. Chapter 1

There was the taste of bittersweet victory in the air, at Winterfell. A feast had been sorted for the survivors of the Great Battle that had claimed as much of them as had remained. Sansa Stark wished she could have done more during the battle itself, rather than being confined to the crypts below. But now that it was over, as the Lady of Winterfell, it was all she could do to make sure that those who still stood for Winterfell and the Dragon Queen enjoyed every comfort that could be afforded to them.

It was smoky but sweet in the Hall, as they drank and roared. Sansa had organized everything from meat and wine, to ale, to whores – only the most willing ones she was able to find. In this way, she felt a little like Petyr Baelish, but she was damned if even the silver tongued snake himself hadn’t inadvertently taught her a few tricks of the business trades. She exchanged a glance with her brother, Jon. His gaze had always been so comforting to her, ever since she had been a small girl. Jon had always favoured Arya, but he had not ever loved Sansa any less. Looking at him now, meeting his warm eyes and his apologetic half-grin, Sansa felt at ease. They were alright now. Even if just for now, it was enough.

She scanned the room again with her eyes. Met the eyes of the Dragon Queen, sipping thoughtfully from a wine goblet. Met the eyes of Brienne of Tarth, her beloved friend and protector. Met the eyes of Podrick Payne, flanked by pretty whores. Met the eyes of Sandor Clegane, also flanked by pretty whores.

Sansa sharply exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, suddenly unsteady on her feet. She’d known the Hound was here; Arya had mentioned it. She had expected to see him and feel a pang of warm familiarity, but meeting his gaze had quite literally knocked the wind out of her. Determined to stand strong, she put a hand on the table in front of her, and didn’t drop her gaze.

He did though, snarling in the face of the brunette girl who was smiling coyly down at him. Receiving his cold message, the smile vanished from her face, and she turned on her heel toward Podrick Payne’s direction. Sansa felt a small grin tug at her lips. She clenched her hands into fists a few times to steady herself, then headed towards his table.

He looked up at her when she was close enough, half-drunk and always honest. As their eyes met this much closer, Sansa felt the world around her soften and shrink away. Here was a man who had done more for her than any other man she knew. Here was the man who taught her to find courage within herself when almost everyone else around her had shoved her deeper and deeper into the cocoon expected of a girl.

‘Little bird,’ he murmured, and the words floated around her like a reverie. It felt painfully nostalgic, like she was in King’s Landing again, all of thirteen years old. She sat opposite him, and someone came to pour her wine. She took a sip of the sharp red before she responded.

‘Sandor Clegane.’

They looked long and hard at each other, and Sansa knew that he was moved by how different she now was. He was different too. Sandor was only fifteen years older than Sansa, but he always seemed weathered and rough beyond his years. His burn in the candlelight only ever made him seem more fearsome, but Sansa had never feared him. His presence had only ever brought her peace and comfort in her darkest nights.

Or at least the darkest nights that he had been around for.

‘Little bird, you’re all grown up,’ came the gruff words. ‘Last I saw you, you were almost a woman grown, and here you are now, Lady of Winterfell and all.’ His tone grew sarcastic. ‘Am I to call you Your Grace?’

‘I’m not the Dragon Queen,’ Sansa replied tartly, accustomed to his humour. ‘No ‘Your Grace’ for me.’

‘Fuck the Dragon Queen,’ he retorted, and Sansa slammed her goblet on the table for fear that someone would hear him. She almost laughed out – this was the man she remembered. No fear for authority, no respect for anyone who hadn’t yet earned it from him. ‘Dragons and fire breathing monsters - those are for scaring children, not ruling a damn kingdom.’

‘So much has happened since we last met,’ she said, drinking again.

He looked at her over the rim of her goblet. ‘You’re colder now,’ he noted. ‘Shit happens to all of us, doesn’t it, little bird? Makes us hard. And cold.’

‘You know that better than anyone,’ Sansa half-whispered. She reached across the table, an involuntary movement – and set her hand on his. She felt his weathered palm flex tentatively beneath hers, but he didn’t withdraw. Looking down at their hands, she’d never seen a less matched pair; one large, rough hand, and one small, neat one.

‘A wolf and a dog,’ he rasped, and she saw that he was looking down at their hands too. He withdrew his hand but raised it to brush a lock of hair from her face. The touch of his fingers against her face was a strange sensation. His hands were too large and strong to be dainty, but the touch itself was as gentle as could come from a man like Sandor Clegane.

‘This red hair,’ he muttered, turning a lock between his fingers. He dropped it, and knocked back the rest of his goblet of ale. Getting to his feet, he looked down at Sansa.

‘I always knew there was another type of fire that could fuck me over.’

Something burned in her then. Her response came out of her before she could even string the words together in her head. 

‘Meet me in the godswood at midnight,’ she called out in a low voice, so no one could hear.

He turned, and met her gaze with a funny expression.

‘Midnight then, little bird.’


	2. The Godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the Hound meet in the godswood, and he tastes fire for the first time.

 

Sansa drained her third cup of wine and shut the door to her bedchamber behind her. Her ladymaid, Lyra, looked at her curiously.

‘Make me beautiful, Lyra,’ she said, her words slightly slurred as the wine set a rosy haze on the world around her. ‘I want to be as beautiful as Jonquil was when Florian saw her and her sisters in Maidenpool.’

Lyra smiled. Only about two years older than Sansa, she came from an Andal family that had long been deeply devoted to Winterfell and the Starks. Without asking any questions, she set about drawing and sweetening a bath for the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa slid off her heavy dress and cloak, feeling a thousandfold lighter in her slip. Shrugging that off too, she put her feet over the sides of the bath and then sank into the hot perfumed water, her lids half shut. Midnight drew closer by the minute, and she didn’t know why she wanted to be lovely, but she wanted to be the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Lyra unpinned her red hair and began combing it out into fierce waves, and Sansa, lulled by the comforting heat of the water and the gentle touch of her ladymaiden at her hair, fell deep into thought.

Sandor Clegane had seen Sansa at her worst before. He had seen her beaten bloody by Ser Meryn Trant, he had seen her humiliated by Joffrey. She remembered when he had averted his eyes when Meryn Trant had stripped her before the entire Red Keep – she remembered it because he had been the only man kind enough to do so. Even when Tyrion Lannister put an end to it and showed her gentleness, she could never forget that it was Sandor Clegane who had covered her nakedness with the cloak that he had ripped so readily from his shoulders – the cloak that was his mark of power and rank to the King.

So why did she want to be so lovely in front of him? She could never be any less in front of him than she had already been.

As Lyra gently yanked her out of her reverie, Sansa stood up and stepped out of the bath. She surveyed her naked body in a mirror, decidedly marked in certain places by the cruelty of Ramsay Bolton. Lyra dabbed her pulse points with scented oils – not too sweet or stuffy, just the gentle scent of lilies.

‘Leave your hair down like that,’ she suggested to Sansa. ‘It looks like a gentle flame, framing your pretty face.’

Sansa grinned. ‘If only you knew what that meant.’

Lyra put a thin, silky, pale white dress out for Sansa. As she slid it on, she felt lovely. She looked lovely. The sleeves were long but sheer, and the top of the dress reached midway down her chest in a delicate arch. The fabric swung with her movements, sheathing her in a way that seemed almost otherworldly.

Finally, Lyra swiped a gentle rosewine on Sansa’s lips. ‘For some blush and colour,’ she smiled. ‘You are breathtaking, Lady Stark.’

Sansa was afraid to look at her reflection again, so she just squeezed Lyra’s hand. She opened the bedchamber door, and slipped out silently into the night.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The godswood had always been safe to her, a place of meditation and calm at the heart of Winterfell. Sansa supposed she was like her father in this sense – her mother had never really liked the godswood. Sansa stepped softly between the trees, guided to the clearing at the centre of it all.

‘Interesting place to meet, little bird,’ came a gruff voice from the moonlit night. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat as she saw him, sitting beneath the weirwood tree. He was still clad in his feast armour.

 ‘Weeping trees, tears of blood in the North.’

‘It’s my favourite tree,’ she responded, walking towards him. ‘I didn’t know if you would come.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

He still sounded a little drunk under the gruff rasp. But then again, he almost always was.

She was right in front of him, the moon shining on them both. Curiously, she thought, the moon's streams cast light only on the unburnt part of his face tonight. She could see his features more clearly in this biased lighting – strong features set on a hardened face. She couldn’t look away from him, her gaze shifting upward when he got to his feet, towering above her.

‘Pretty tonight,’ he murmured, placing a hand behind her neck. ‘Is all this for me, little bird?’

Sansa heard the words drip sarcasm, but in that moment she had never felt braver.

‘Yes,’ she responded shortly, keeping her eyes trained on his.

The Hound dropped his hand from the nape of her neck.

‘I never really stopped thinking about you,’ she said, willing her courage and the headiness from the wine she’d been drinking to push her along. ‘Your kindness to me. You saved my life in King’s Landing.’

‘You saved your own life,’ he muttered. ‘Whatever I did, you see it as kindness because you became so accustomed to the shit and filth that Joffrey had you pent up in.’

‘You say this now, but you cared about me,’ Sansa continued. ‘I wished for you in the days after you. In the Vale. And after that too. When Ramsay Bolton hurt me.’

Sandor Clegane tensed. Sansa saw the veins in his arms as his fist clenched.

‘If you had come with me, he could have never hurt you,’ he growled. ‘I would have liked to see the shit stain try. I’d have strangled him with his own fucking guts.’

‘I killed him myself,’ Sansa said, proudly. ‘I thought of you then, too. That you would be proud of me.’

The Hound’s face softened, even when his words still came rough. ‘My little bird became a wolf.’

Sansa felt a stirring at his use of the word ‘my’.

‘You taught me first,’ she whispered, stepping closer to him. ‘The change to a wolf began with you.’

He didn’t move, letting her come closer to him. Then he reached forward, gripping her forearms.

‘I am not one of the knights in your songs. You are the Lady of Winterfell now, you deserve one who wins tournaments and crowns you his Queen of Love and Beauty. Not a fuck-all scar faced dog.’

‘Tourneys and gallantry are the old days,’ Sansa replied. ‘These are days of war and dragon fire. These are days of taking chances of joy where you find it, so the world does not seem completely lost.’

Sandor Clegane dropped one hand from Sansa’s forearm and it came to rest at her waist. ‘What would you have, Sansa?’ he asked, and her skin prickled as he tasted her name for the first time in his mouth. ‘Would you have me take you, right here? Is that why you got pretty for me, and smell so pretty too? Right here, on the ground, in front of this tree?’

‘If you wanted to,’ Sansa shot back, swallowing the knots in her stomach. She had never felt this way in her entire life – she was falling to pieces, melting, slipping.

He turned Sansa around in his arms, and she found herself with her back to the weirwood tree, caged between it and the Hound. Almost instinctively, she raised a hand to touch his face, running her fingers across the weathered skin. His eyes closed at the sensation, allowing her gentleness. She stepped on her tiptoes, and albeit hesitantly, he bent his head to meet her halfway.

Beneath a thousand distant stars and amidst the whisper of the trees around them, Sansa Stark summoned every drop of courage and desire that had burned in her for years. Since the Blackwater Battle she had craved this, since then she had thought about it, and  _him,_ thought of him with Joffrey, thought of him with Ramsay, thought of him with Tyrion. Him, him, him. It had always been him. She had grown up dreaming of blonde haired, blue eyed knights - but her greatest dream had always been her burnt protector.

She kissed him.

Sansa truthfully had never had a proper kiss. But what happened next felt as natural as could be. She never expected the Hound to be a gentle kisser - and that he was not, but it was beautiful for her all the same. He tasted like strong wine and she wanted nothing more than to get drunker than she had ever been. She kissed him with all the fervour she could muster, and she knew that he was stopping himself from retaliating with the same strength. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and she whined softly into his mouth, and she knew she had awakened something in him. Pushing on, she pressed herself against him and he steadied her with strong hands around her waist and at the small of her back.

Then he gently parted from her and pushed her back, pressing her against the tree.

‘Sandor-’ she began, in protest.

She sucked in a sharp breath when she felt his hand brush over her dress, down over her breasts, and then between her legs. She knew he could feel the dampness even between the fabric, and she shuddered.

‘I will take you, little bird,’ he murmured gruffly against her lips. ‘I will have you, and I will make you sing. But not tonight. Mourn your dead, secure your gates.’

‘Please, stay-’

‘I’ll see you back to your chambers. But when you sleep, and when you dream, remember that soon, I will have you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO, I had this in my drafts, so just a quick upload before bedtime. Thank you SO much for the resounding feedback through kudos, bookmarks and comments etc after just a few hours! I can tell this is a really well loved pairing and I hope I do justice to these characters that we so love.


	3. Tactics

Sansa awoke peacefully the next morning, her orange hair fanning across her pillow. It took a moment for the events of yesterday and last night to come flooding back to her, and for a few seconds, she just lay there, thinking about it all.

 

She had kissed him in the godswood. He knew now if he didn’t before that she wanted him. That she craved him. And she knew that he wanted her too.

 

They would never be the same.

 

There was a soft knock outside her quarters, and she sat upright - her heart hammering in her chest for a moment. But Arya walked in as Lyra opened the chamber doors.

 

‘Arya!’

 

Sansa felt a rush of affection for her little sister as Arya hopped into the room and up onto the edge of her bed. She was already dressed, with Needle, her sword, sheathed neatly into its casing at her side.

 

‘They’re doing some planning today,’ Arya said knowledgeably. ‘The Targaryen wants to discuss arrival at King’s Landing.’

 

‘I’ve had so much of this stupid war already,’ sighed Sansa. She hugged her knees, resting her chin on her kneecaps. ‘Sometimes I feel like that throne isn’t even worth these battles anymore. Sometimes I wonder if we could just stay here, in the North.’

 

‘We could,’ replied Arya. ‘But then the sacrifices everyone made would have been for nothing. We would have lost our family for nothing.’

 

Sansa knew Arya was right. She nodded. ‘What do you think about the Targaryen girl?’

 

‘I think Jon needs to get his head out of his ass when it comes to her,’ Arya grinned. ‘I don’t really know yet. I suppose today we’ll see more of how she thinks. What do you think of her?’

 

‘She’s pretty,’ Sansa shrugged.

 

‘Either way, there’s lots of tying up loose ends to be done in King’s Landing,’ Arya continued. ‘Cersei, the Mountain..’

 

She paused abruptly. ‘I saw you talking to the Hound last night.’

 

‘Yes, I was,’ Sansa replied coolly, keeping her voice even. ‘I had a lot to thank him for.’

 

‘So do I,’ Arya murmured thoughtfully. ‘He’s not the most fun company for months at a time, but he did his best with me. I hated him at first, you know. For a long time, he was still Joffrey’s dog to me.’

 

‘Even when he was Joffrey’s dog, he protected me,’ Sansa responded. ‘When I was a stupid little girl and did stupid things. He never beat me. And he always stood up for me. He saved me, when the people revolted against Joffrey.’

 

‘He’s not a bad man,’ Arya conceded. ‘Just dark.’

 

She got off the bed. ‘You should get changed and come up the library tower, Sansa. See you soon.’

 

Sansa smiled at her little sister as she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

 

King’s Landing.

 

Cersei.

 

The Mountain.

 

If Sandor Clegane went to King’s Landing, would Sansa ever see him again?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Dressed in a dark green wool dress and a black cloak fastened with a direwolf pin, Sansa ascended the stairs to the library tower. She was late. Two guards stood outside the door, hurtling into attentive bows as she approached.

 

‘Lady Stark.’

 

She nodded at them, entering the room as they slid the doors open for her.

 

The library tower had always been one of Sansa’s favourite places in Winterfell. When they were young, and she was learning all the courtesies of a lady, she’d spent a lot of time in here. It was in here she’d learnt almost everything she knew about the Seven Kingdoms. But these pretty books in their pretty leather sleeves could have never prepared her for what was to come. She’d read books about knights and jousts, but no book they owned could tell her what death smelled like, or how betrayal tasted on the tongue. She was lost in her thoughts until she reached close to the rectangular table at the center of the tower, where there were two empty seats at one end.

 

Daenerys Targaryen surveyed Sansa from head to toe.

 

‘So good of you to come, Lady Stark,’ she smiled. Her purple eyes met Sansa’s blue.

 

‘My apologies for my lateness.’ Sansa slipped into one of the seats, and looked around for Jon. He shot her a warm half-smile, and she felt a surge of affection for him.

 

Directly opposite her at the two seats on the small side of the rectangle were Daenerys and Jon. Brienne of Tarth and Arya sat to her left, with the Unsullied’s ‘Grey Worm’, Lord Varys and Tyrion taking up the three seats on the right side of the table.

 

‘I want to take King’s Landing at my first opportunity,’ Daenerys said, as soon as Sansa sat. ‘I am tired of sitting and waiting. I have Drogon and Rhaegal. I have the Unsullied. Cersei grows weaker by the day.’

 

‘My Queen,’ Tyrion Lannister began, ‘you forget the Iron Fleet. Cersei may have lost much, but she has the Fleet, and the Golden Company, within the gates of King’s Landing.’

 

The unease with which everyone regarded the Dragon Queen was palpable in the still room. Silence fell, which made the creaking floorboards more evident as another party approached the table.

 

Sansa met Sandor Clegane’s eyes and felt a jolt down her spine.

 

‘I asked Clegane to join us,’ said Tyrion. ‘He served the Lannisters in a much closer proximity than I ever had to my sister or her son. He may be able to give us some more information.’

 

Sansa kept her eyes forward as the chair next to her scraped the ground. He took the seat with a heavy, weary thud, but he never so much as glanced in her direction.

 

‘Good of you to come, Clegane.’

 

‘Wouldn’t fucking be here if I had any other choice,’ grunted the Hound.

 

Daenerys raised a thick eyebrow.

 

‘I beg your pardon, my Queen,’ Tyrion quickly interjected. ‘I hope you can find it in you to forgive Clegane’s less than tender disposition.’

 

‘Tell me, Sandor Clegane,’ Daenerys called out. ‘If I were to fly my dragons to King’s Landing, how do I kill Cersei Lannister without arbitrary bloodshed?’

 

The Hound met Daenerys’ eyes, and Sansa saw that even the Dragon Queen was unnerved by him. ‘I never served Cersei Lannister,’ he said in a voice that was little more than a harsh growl. ‘But Joffrey was always talking about the Red Keep being the safest place in the city. The throne room. Stupid words from a stupid cunt if you ask me, the Red Keep can fall like any other man-made building in all of fucking Westeros.’

 

‘Of course, we all know Cersei has a personal bodyguard,’ Lord Varys added. ‘One who I’m not quite sure is even fully a man.’

 

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. ‘Ser Gregor.’

 

The Hound laughed. It was a dark sound, full of hate. ‘For fuck’s sake. He’s never been fully a man.’

 

Sansa looked down at her hands as the discomfort swallowed the room. Only the Dragon Queen seemed intent on pursuing the conversation, so she started again.

 

‘Lady Sansa,’ she said, and her tone was challenging. Jon sat up attentively, looking between his lover and his sister. Sansa met Daenerys’ eyes again.

 

‘To fight as houses divided will never work,’ Daenerys continued. Her voice was cool, even somewhat kindly, but Sansa could smell every tinge of her challenge woven deep between each syllable. ‘House Targaryen swears  to protect House Stark and defend its honour always. We will enter this battle together and we will fight our common enemy and I promise that you will have my respect and my love for all our days to come. I ask you here, before our comrades and our friends.. will you bend the knee?’

 

Sansa froze in her seat. Rage churned in her belly and made her blood run hot.

 

 _How dare you?!_ she screamed with her eyes. _How dare you come to MY home and how dare you demand my loyalty? My brother deserves the throne! How dare you keep it from him?!_

A touch, bringing her back to reality.

 

A touch, as light as a feather, as gentle as a summer rain.

 

A hand on hers.

 

Sansa looked to her left, and for the quickest of seconds, grey eyes met blue. Before anyone could notice, she looked back at Daenerys.

 

The Hound’s hand was on hers. A hand that had held her waist in the godswood. A hand that had never raised to hit her. A hand that had brushed her hair out of her face. A hand that had only ever shown gentleness, in this enormous, unforgiving world.

 

Her fingers parted, and much larger ones interlocked with hers. A brief squeeze, then she was palm-up against the air again.

 

Sansa Stark had become strong. She had become resilient. And his touch had reminded her of it.

 

‘Daenerys Targaryen,’ Sansa responded crisply, and the table held its breath. ‘House Stark fights with you, and rides with you. House Stark feeds your armies, treats your wounded. You find peace and solace at Winterfell. But I am a Stark, the daughter of the most honourable man in the realm. Jon is the King in the North. I have no doubt of your noble causes and your highborn blood. But as of right now, I swear fealty to my brother, and my brother, alone.’

 

Daenerys’ smile turned to ice on her beautiful face. She looked at Jon, then Arya, then Sansa again. She turned on her heel and in a flurry of white-blonde tresses, she was gone.

 

It was quiet then, for a while. One by one everyone left the library, until Jon was left alone with Sansa.

 

‘Sansa..’ he began, but she stopped him.

 

‘I know you love her, Jon,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t claim to know or understand the powers of love, but you have to know. She came from across the Narrow Sea. Her father killed our grandfather, and our uncle. We have to be careful.’

 

‘We will be,’ he replied, with a tender touch to her shoulder. ‘Sansa, just be careful. She has a short fuse and I’m not excusing her or condoning her, I just want you to be safe. You are strong and you are confident, and this is not a war of two women. Just be careful. That’s all I ask.’

 

He drew her in for a hug, and she pressed her cheek against his chest, glad for a moment of reprieve.

 

‘Go then,’ she teased, drawing back from him. ‘Go to your beloved lady love and grovel for your impudent sister.’

 

Jon laughed. ‘On both knees I will beg for you, Lady Sansa.’

 

Sansa smiled after him as he made his way out of the room. Drawing her cloak closer around her, she stepped close to the window, looking down at Winterfell below. The snow fell in flurries, but these days, the white blanket it left always looked more macabre than beautiful. She was thousands of miles deep in her reverie, not noticing the floorboards creaking behind her.

 

A strong hand on her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts, and she was staring up into his grey eyes again.

 

‘Little bird,’ he groaned. ‘Be careful with the dragon bitch. She has dangerous eyes.’

 

‘And what kind of eyes do I have?’ Sansa retorted, taking offense at his words. ‘Weakling eyes?’

 

‘Tully blue,’ the Hound replied wryly. He moved closer to her, raising a hand to pull the direwolf pin from her cloak. It fell to the floor in a heap around her ankles, leaving her shoulders exposed. ‘Blue as the Narrow Sea.’

 

Sansa thought that in the silence of the library, he could hear her heart thudding in her chest. He put the direwolf pin down on the nearest shelf, and pulled her to him, turning her away so her back was pressed against his chest. He was still almost a foot taller than her, and he bent his head now so his mouth was at her ear, securing her against him with a hand pressed firmly to her belly.

 

‘You are many things, little bird,’ he murmured, and Sansa felt her knees turn to jelly at the touch of his lips to her ear, ‘but weak is not one.’

 

'Not here,' she began. But even as the words came out, she tilted her neck to one side, longing for him to kiss her there, longing for him to do _something -_ to sate the fire burning in her belly, pooling between her thighs.

 

He put his left hand around her, holding her to him, as his right hand slid from her belly to between her legs. She shuddered, and pressed her back against him, reddening fiercely when she felt a pressure against her lower back. Throwing caution to the winds, Sansa tried lifting her skirts – she needed to feel his hands on her body – not her clothes – but he just laughed, a low growl in her ear, using his left hand to pry both of hers away from the hem of her dress.

 

‘So impatient, girl,’ he grinned against her ear. She all but cried out when she felt a sharp nip at the point her throat met her collarbone - then he released her, and they were standing a foot apart again.

 

‘Did you just bite me?!’ she asked, utterly shocked.

 

‘The little bird tastes as good as she looks,’ he replied simply, handing her back the direwolf pin. ‘But now I’ve opened up my damned appetite.’

 


	4. Bonded

Sansa had never been so pleased to know Winterfell so well, as she did that night. Her skin still burned from where he had held her, and she was desperate for him to touch her again. She sat at her mirror, studying her reflection. She’d been brushing her hair out until it shone, looking even redder than usual against the pale fabric of her nightdress.

 

She’d never felt like this before, and it shocked her deeply. Was this how her father had felt for her mother? Was this why kingdoms went to war? She thought of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, of the Lannister twins and their secret affair that had started a new battle that left thousands dead. When Sansa was a child, she believed love to be a flowery, fruitful thing, bathed in sunlight and flecked with laughter. But now she knew that the business of taking a lover could be every inch destructive as it could be beautiful, every inch as dangerous as it could be bliss.

 

She got to her feet, picking up her cloak. She fastened it over her night shift with her direwolf pin, and slipped out of her chambers. As careful as she could be not to make a sound, she took the routes that would offer the least resistance, and the least chances of being seen. The moon was high in the sky and the hour was late, so she wagered that most of the castle was asleep.

 

Sandor Clegane was staying in the guest quarters outside of the Great Keep. Sansa had been in the Great Keep of Winterfell hundreds of times in her life, but this time her knees wobbled and her heart raced as she made her way closer and closer to his door. Finally she stood facing the knocker, and her heart felt like it had been put on pause. She knocked twice.

 

It felt like an eternity later but he opened the door gingerly, dagger in hand. She looked down at it and couldn’t help but bite back a grin.

 

‘Did I wake you?’ she asked apologetically.

 

His dagger hand relaxed, and he met her eyes. Moonlight streamed in on his face, softened, somehow, when he thought the world slept around him. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him not clad in armour; he wore black breeches and a cream-coloured sleep tunic. Sansa felt strange. She felt strange seeing him the way she was sure nobody really saw him. Softened, not full of rage and violence as he so often was.

 

‘Little bird,’ he greeted her. Summoning her courage, she stepped lightly into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She surveyed the quarters. Sansa was often in the Great Keep, but she never spent a great deal of time in Winterfell’s guest quarters. It was quaint and matched the rest of the castle – simple, but sufficient. A four-poster bed, a hearth with a low fire, two chairs covered in pelt, and a table with candles and summerwine horns.

 

‘I’ve never really been in here,’ she admitted.

 

‘And why should you’ve been?’ he grunted. ‘Little Sansa Stark, the daughter of Winterfell, in the rooms of a strange guest? What a fucking scandal.’

 

 Sansa looked directly at him, sliding the direwolf pin out of her cloak. It fell to the ground behind her, and she was looking at him now in nothing but her night-dress, pale, thin, white, and pressing against her body in waves and bursts, as it moved with the midnight wind.

 

For what felt like a long time, he looked at her. Really _looked_ at her. Her blue eyes. Red hair. Pale skin. Long legs. The flutter of her dress against the swell of her breasts. And he didn’t say a word. She began to feel uneasy.

 

‘Are yo-’

 

‘Shut up, for God’s sake, little bird,’ he growled. ‘Let me look at you.’

 

He stepped closer to her in the orange glow of the dark room, and it reminded her of the night of the Blackwater Battle. He’d been waiting for her then, too. He reached forward, resting a hand against her waist. It was a smooth movement – albeit with rough, calloused hands – his hand trailed across her stomach, squeezing at the small part of her waist. She kept her eyes trained on his.

 

‘You really want this,’ he affirmed.

 

‘Don’t you?’ she breathed back, searching his face for signs of regret.

 

‘More than anything,’ he grunted, raising his hand to pull away the laces at the top of her night-dress. It came undone but remained slack across her shoulders, and she willed it with all her heart to fall to the floor. He pushed her hair back over her shoulder, his fingers trailing across her bare skin. She shuddered.

 

As much as she wanted what was happening in that moment, she still saw flashes of Ramsay in her mind when he touched her. She thought briefly of the little scars all over her body that she still bore from Ramsay’s knife games – a slash above her left breast, one on her inner thigh, one above her navel. Places he knew nobody would see them on a highborn lady.

 

‘Sandor,’ she said. Her voice was quiet. ‘The last time was..’

 

Sandor Clegane bent over, placing his hands beneath Sansa’s thighs and picking her up off the floor. She wound her legs around his waist, startled, and was even more startled when he laid her on her back on the four-poster, with all the gentleness he was capable of.

 

‘It will never be like the last time again, little bird,’ he murmured. His voice was still rough, but she heard the gentleness, just for her. ‘For as long as I live, it will never be like the last time again.’

 

‘There are scars,’ she pressed on, willing herself to get the worst out of the way.

 

The Hound laughed darkly. It wasn’t unkind. ‘Scars are my forte, Sansa. But to see them on you..’

 

He paused.

 

‘I would dig his fucking corpse up from the ground and shatter every bone if I could.’

 

Sansa was still on her back, but she reached up for him, in the darkness.

 

‘I don’t want to talk about him anymore.’

 

She felt the breeze on her ankles and then her legs, and she knew he was sliding her dress up. She raised her body off the bed so he could pull it over her head, and she looked up at him, naked, vulnerable. His eyes glimmered.

 

He still stood on the floor but he leaned over her, and she threw her arms around his neck, catching him in a kiss. They had kissed before, but this kiss was different. She could taste the need and the fire on his tongue, and she let out a whimper as he bit down on her bottom lip. She craned her head back as he switched gears, trailing less-than-tender kisses down her neck, nipping at her skin here and there.

 

Sansa dreamt that sweetness was what she needed. But in this moment, she had never felt more alive under his callous gentleness.

 

He found the scar at her breast, and her body erupted in chills as he made short work of that with his mouth. He found the scar at her navel, and she groaned as he kissed that one too. But when he got on his knees and found the one at her inner thigh, she all but cried out in the darkness.

 

‘Sing for me, little bird,’ he murmured. He placed one hand beneath each of her thighs, pushing her legs up in the air. She felt the scratch of his beard and the kisses between her thighs, before she felt his mouth directly on her sex.

 

‘Oh, _Gods,’_ she keened, giving in to a sensation she’d never experienced before.

 

Sansa clutched at the sheets and arched her back off the bed, as he kissed and licked his way between her legs. She was seeing stars, and she felt a thunder rousing inside of her, getting stronger, and stronger by the minute. He would occasionally give a sharp bite at her inner thighs, and each time she felt it push her closer and closer to the edge - and she knew he could tell by the frequency of her gasps and moans. All of the stars were about to burst when he stopped, releasing her legs and letting them fall.

 

Her knees were jelly. She was furious.

 

‘I was just about to –’

 

‘And you will,’ he grinned. He began unlacing his breeches, and Sansa let her head fall back against the pillow again. He pressed against her, and she could feel the hardness against her core – the need for it – the want for it – she felt as primal as a wolf.

 She was glittering. Glowing. Shining. The air had taken on a haze. She had never felt like this before. Every single nerve was on fire, every single touch felt like magic. She relented to his kisses again as he steadied himself over her, kissing her again and again, kissing her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead, her neck.

 

She looked at him through heavy eyes, running her fingers across his scar.

 

‘How are you still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen?’ she breathed.

 

His eyes were as soft as she’d ever seen them, but there was fire raging in them for her. He lifted one of her legs and she wound it around his back. She felt his fingers at her core, and two slipped inside her, eliciting a soft, pleasurable whine. As her mouth fell open, he kissed her again, murmuring the words into her that she needed the most.

 

‘I’m going to take you now, little bird.’

 

‘Take me,’ she whispered. ‘All of me. I’m yours. I’m yours, and I always will be yours.’

 

She felt a tight pressure as he entered her, and he couldn’t help his groan of distinct pleasure. She squeezed her eyes shut – the pain would only last a second –

 

Oh _God._

In a hazy rush of desire and need, the pain had given way to the sweetest pressure she had ever felt. She met his eyes.

 

‘Slowly first, little bird,’ he said.

 

Sansa gasped and moaned as he filled her up and withdrew, over and over and over again. He put one hand behind her head and pulled it back, his eyes never leaving hers. She was floating, he was everything she needed – everything she wanted – it felt too good. His lips met her neck and in that moment she was pushed off the edge – her entire body burst into starlight and fire, and she was gasping for breath, as he stifled her screams with a rough kiss to her lips. The sight of her writhing and moaning under him had him undone seconds after, and he spilled his seed on her stomach, with a guttural groan that she’d never heard from him before.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘I don’t want you to go to King’s Landing,’ she murmured selfishly. In the dimly lit room she was laid up on him, secured by an arm around her waist. Neither of them had put back on their clothes, and she loved the feel of him against her skin. She felt safe. She felt whole.

 

‘You think I want to go?’ he grunted. His fingers raked up and down her ribs, made gentle knots in her hair. ‘I have a fucking demon to kill.’

 

‘What makes you so sure you’ll come back?’ she prodded, looking up at him with wet, blue eyes.

 

‘I have a reason to,’ he replied.

 

She kissed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've always been deeply invested in SanSan and I really wanted a good story for them that went beyond what was portrayed recently in GoT. Please enjoy and leave feedback, I have a few chapters ready that I can post ASAP. Thank you, and please also feel free to recommend good SanSan work that you've read!


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